


a collection of brutal prompts

by ggwynbleidd



Category: Metalocalypse (Cartoon)
Genre: Angst, Bad Cooking, Blackouts, Cuddling, Domesticity, Drug Use, Gen, Height Differences, Homophobic Language, Jail, Kissing in the Rain, M/M, Multi, Non-Explicit Sex, Prefame/Preklok, Reunions, Secret Relationship, Sick Character, Storms, Summer Vacation, Tickling, alcohol use, hospital visits
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-02
Updated: 2021-01-03
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:35:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 16,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26248036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ggwynbleidd/pseuds/ggwynbleidd
Summary: Filled Tumblr prompts all collected into a convenient location that will probably be continuously added on to. Notes will have pairings/ratings/summaries/warnings.
Relationships: Charles Foster Offdensen/Pickles the Drummer, Magnus Hammersmith/Charles Foster Offdensen, Magnus Hammersmith/Pickles The Drummer, Magnus Hammersmith/Skwisgaar Skwigelf, Nathan Explosion/Charles Foster Offdensen, Nathan Explosion/Magnus Hammersmith, Nathan Explosion/Skwisgaar Skwigelf
Comments: 2
Kudos: 20





	1. pickles cannot be trusted with a stove

**Author's Note:**

> pickles the drummer/charles offdensen, general audience
> 
> pickles tries to cook, with poor results, and Charles has to step in

The feeling of something being off snapped into the air like a light bulb popping and made Charles tear his blurry eyes from his screen. He let the feeling sit for a moment and simmer, waiting for somebody to poke their head into the office and say “So, apparently-” but everything was still quiet. Average. Just dandy. So he went back to replying to emails and filing reports.

Then one of the smoke alarms went off.

It wasn’t near his office this time at the very least. The time before this had been and a decent stack of tax reports (and his oak table, his chairs, the good lamps and himself) had been soaked through from the overhead sprinklers. Not getting an impromptu shower at three in the morning was a small blessing. Heaving a sigh, Charles pushed his chair back and peered into the hallway. Nothing. Not even a single scuttling hooded figure with a fire extinguisher. So probably not a trash fire, or bad wiring, or stray fireworks (like the last time, thanks to Nathan) but at the same time wasn’t an actual emergency.

Shuffling through Modhaus he finally stopped at the apparent source. The kitchen. The air was heavy with dark smoke and the smell of burned meat, Klokateers looking for any flame to snuff out and turning to Charles with shrugs when they found nothing.

“Hi,” said Pickles in a small voice, waggling his fingers in a wave. “I was makin’ burgers.”

“I can tell,” Charles lied. He really couldn’t. For all he had known before Pickles had said something, the objects in the pan he was holding were hockey pucks. He waved a hand at the Klokateers to dismiss them, waiting for the door to shut behind them to start talking. “Why, uhm, why are you making food? And why are you up so late?”

“Why’re you awake?” was the retort. It wasn’t too surprising to not get an answer considering the slurring drawl and red-rimmed eyes. And the scent of strong, strong weed once the air had cleared a little more. “I got hungry.”

“You have people to make you food,” he was a little brisker than he intended. Shaking the little discs of desiccated meat into the trash and setting the pan in the sink to soak, he realized he wasn’t sure when he had eaten last. Dinner at nine probably.

Pickles shifted in the kitchen chair and shrugged helplessly. He was grinning now, eyes following Charles as he began to putter around the kitchen. Pickles let out a shrill “Oooh!” of surprise as Charles folded up his jacket and rolled up his sleeves.

“Here,” Charles instructed as he handed over potatoes. “Can you wash and cut those. Uh, please?”

Obliging, Pickles took them. The two worked quietly other than Pickles discovering things about his house that he hadn’t even known about (“The fuck is that?” “It’s…a meat grinder?” “Oh, sick! Could totally cut up a body with that!” “I suppose?”) and Charles humming. Soft and tuneless and under his breath but the emptiness of the kitchen made it so obvious. Good acoustics. Pickles couldn’t remember who had insisted on the kitchen having good acoustics but he hoped it was him. Because a delighted titter escaped him when he recognized the tune.

“Is that The Beatles?” he snickered. Charles stopped completely dead, quiet with a half-formed patty in his hands. “Oh my Goddd, you sap!”

“It’s not-no-I’m-” Charles was sputtering as his ears got redder and redder. “It-it was Thunderhorse.”

“Nuh-uh!” crowed Pickles, nudging the other man in his side. “That was Golden Slumbers!”

Charles cast a look at him over his glasses.

“Well. Why do you know which song it was?” he asked coolly. Pickles stammered for a second before going back to furiously chopping. “I thought so. And please don’t cut those so finely.”

“I like shoestring fries! They’re my burgers, anyway! I mean, you’re…you’re makin’ ‘em…and I was tryna cook for you anyways since I knew you were still up-” he caught himself in his own whining and shut his mouth with an almost comedic snap.

Red-faced and quiet the two resumed cooking. There was no other sound other than the sizzling of meat, the hissing of oil and rhythmic chopping of knives. A small squabble had erupted over onion usage (“I don’t like the white ones! We can just cut up a white one and a red one and use whatever we want!” “That’s so wasteful!” “Did you forget how much money we fuckin’ have?!”) but it had been calmed by a mutual hatred of tomatoes. Well, a pickiness on Pickles’ part and allergy on Charles’.

“So,” Charles said as they settled into chairs. Pickles sat right next to him despite the vast expanse of tables and chairs around them. It made him think of those couples in restaurants who sit next to each other and leave the other side of the table empty. “You were trying to cook for me.”

“Yup,” Pickles said simply. “It’s like I care about you or somethin’.”

Charles chuffed with laughter and his ears reddened again. It was one of his more endearing but confusing traits because it either meant he was embarrassed or mad as hell. The same thing could be said about fiddling with his clothes - unbuttoning and buttoning his jacket, playing with collars and ties, fixing cufflinks. Which he was doing as well, pulling on his tie to adjust it until it was almost coming undone in protest. All of this nervously energetic fiddling made Pickles giggle to himself.

Especially when he kissed Charles on the cheek and the blush deepened into his whole face.

Pickles just laughed again, beyond pleased with himself, a grin spreading when Charles shot him a look. The drummer just wiggled merrily in his seat and held up his burger. There was a confused pause before he took Charles by the wrist and gently tapped their food together. A little toast, to five AM burgers. Then the realization that it was five in the morning hit Charles.

“I’m going to be exhausted,” he mumbled blearily into his food. He was already dreading the few hours of sleep he was going to end up getting. “It was worth it, though.”

“Was it really?” asked Pickles.

“Really!” the reply was simple but delivered with a smile.


	2. the cure to homesickness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> toki wartooth & magnus hammersmith, teen
> 
> a missing dethcamp scene, some conversation between magnus and toki
> 
> warning for brief discussion of homophobia/slurs

Toki was homesick. He had been warned he would be and had brushed it off with a laugh. But it was true. He wanted his bed, his home, his food, his friends. Because all he really wanted out of this was, well, more friends. And maybe a guitar solo, that would be nice. So far he hadn’t gotten any of that. Just unkind jeers, threats, and bitter loneliness. He felt it was better in the long run just to sit on the hill over the lake and pull handfuls of grass in his free time. And to try and resist the feeling of his phone in his pocket, heavy and practically singing for him to call and ask to come home.

“Hey,” a voice above and behind him snapped Toki out of his sulking. He turned to see Magnus sitting down on the ground next to him. “There’s, like, a bench. Over there.”

“I likes this spot. Can sees the swans,” Toki’s shrug was half-hearted, mind more focused on Pickles would like to see the swans.

“Oh. Cool, I guess. I got sodas,” Magnus held out a bottle. “It’s diet, so that’s okay, right? No sugar?”

It was Pepsi, and Toki didn’t like Pepsi, but he sure liked the gesture. It was a nice, friendly sort of thing (like having a friend, even) and he sipped on his drink thankfully. Even as he tried to ignore the owlish stare from Magnus that was currently boring a hole into his head.

“Why ams you starings?” Toki finally asked, voice snippy, turning to look back at him. He felt a little pang of embarrassment and shame settle in his stomach. Magnus had sat down on Toki’s right side and was now craning his neck to look at him. “S-sorry. So, aha, that-that eye really don’t works, huh?”

“It’s pretty dead, yeah. I barely see shadows and light, that’s it. I can poke it. And, like, not even blink,” the answer was a little too proud and a little too fast. Magnus already had a finger raised. “Wanna see?”

Toki shook his head quickly and Magnus just laughed, and coughed. They sat for a moment longer, staring at the swans swimming in little circles, before that bitingly annoying familiarity crept back into Toki’s brain. It was like an itch he couldn’t get to. Magnus Hammersmith was, after all, a pretty striking name. He should know it.

“What bands was you in? Any big ones? I thinks I knows you,” he said.

Magnus made a funny little noise, like a ghost had come by and punched him in the gut.

“Well, I was in a bunch in the ‘80s and ‘90s. Gorefuck, Cow Tongues, Skeleton Lapdance, Roman Candles. A few,” Magnus awkwardly rolled his bottle in between his palms. “And then I was in another one, like…real unknown, can’t remember the name. Got, uh, kicked out. Me and the other guys got into a big fight and…well, it’s a real long story.”

“I gots time,” shrugged Toki. “Anythings to make sure I don’t run into, uh, some peoples around heres.”

“Oh that big asshole?” it sounded like he was stumbling to change the subject. Magnus waved his hand dismissively. “Can’t let that shit bother you.”

“I means, it’s not just botherings me. He was an assholes,” Toki grimaced. “I havens’t-it’s been a longs time since anyones called me-”

“What, a faggot?” Magnus interrupted, Toki interjecting with a noise of his own. “Oh, come on. It doesn’t hurt that bad.”

“Yeah it does!” his voice was climbing in pitch without realizing. “What, yous doesn’t gets called that so you thinks it’s no big deals?”

Magnus’ laugh was small, in the back of his throat like a little cough and lacked any humor. He vaguely gestured at himself and Toki narrowed his eyes in thought. All he saw was denim, and legs, and wild hair, and that eye. Then it hit him and he made a noise of recognition. And there was something that was comforting and oddly exciting, the idea of Magnus being called names like that too. Not that it wasn’t a sad thing, but that there was some kind of similarity between the two of them. It did seem like they were a lot alike. They played guitar, they got into squabbles with bandmates, if he understood what Magnus was saying they might both be-

“Listen, I’ve been called all kinds of shit. I was a kid in the ‘80s like you’re a kid now. And I know it’s a bit different but it’s still, y’know, not good these days. Besides any guy with long hair-” Magnus stopped at the offended sigh that escaped Toki. “What now?”

“Ams not a kid,” Toki protested. “I’m twenty-nines!”

“Fuck, are you?” Magnus drew back his head in surprise. “I thought you were, like, twenty.”

“Just because you ams old doesn’ts mean that everyone else is a kids!” teased Toki, nudging Magnus in the side with his elbow.

“I’m forty-six!” the reply from Magnus was almost a squawk. “I’m not old, asshole!”

“You seems old,” Toki said smugly.

Magnus sucked his teeth in annoyance and crumpled his empty bottle in his hands. He closed his left eye, a habit from years of both eyes working, and aimed his right arm toward the lake. Toki reached across him and yanked it out of his hand, holding the plastic to his chest.

“Don’t!” he admonished. “The swans!”

“Oh, fuck, not the swans. How could I forget about the poor goddamn swans,” Magnus’ voice was heavy with sarcasm as he spoke. “What, are you gonna make me a lil’ eco-warrior? Some nice lil' hippie?”

“You ams a nice person! I thinks so anyways,” Toki smiled at him, but his smile fell quickly as Magnus laughed again. He laughed at him a lot, it felt like. “What? You ams a little scary lookings, yeah, but you don’t seems bad. Just a little roughs around the edges-”

“I look like shit, I get it. But…” Magnus trailed off for a moment. “Thanks. I guess.”

Toki beamed at him, standing up and brushing the grass and leaves off of his jeans. He held out his hand to help Magnus hoist himself off the ground as well. To his happy surprise, he took it. Toki gently steered their walk to the recycling bins to get rid of their trash before they began making their way back to the camp proper. It was almost completely dark, fireflies blinking in and out of the air, cicadas and frogs singing in the distance. And everything was nice even as they walked in silence. Everything was going to be okay. Because Toki had made a friend.


	3. goodbye, friend and more

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> magnus hammersmith/pickles the drummer (and mentions of past magnus hammersmith/nathan explosion, and implied nathan explosion/pickles the drummer), mature rating
> 
> pickles helps magnus move out (from the prompt "will you miss me at all?")

It had been a quick decision. Four to one and all that, the news delivered by Nathan with three little nervous shadows flickering behind him. Magnus had called up his buddy with a truck and asked to borrow it in the morning before starting to pack his shit. Hell, he did that before he was even really told to. Out of the band, off of the lease, he wasn’t a stranger to this. The night was spent holed up in his room, sweeping armfuls of clothes and CDs and all the other bullshit he owned into boxes. There was a temptation to leave his nests of trash behind. The piles of beer cans and bottles, abandoned cellophane from cigarette packs, food wrappers, broken amps he kept saying he would fix. He had a fantasy about pissing in a few of the bottles, leaving them lying around, the image of one of the other guys picking it up wrong and spilling it sending a jolt of petty satisfaction through him. Not that he really cared enough to do that and he ended up collapsing onto his bed with a splitting headache anyway.

His friend dropped the truck and keys off at the ass crack of dawn, Magnus waving goodbye as he and his girlfriend crawled into their sedan and drove off with a warning not to wreck anything. It was cold for a southern morning, not enough for his breath to fog but enough for the concrete of the parking lot to bite against his bare feet as he walked. And it was an agonizing bunch of walking. Tip-toeing from his room to the door and back and forth. Because the last thing he needed was to wake anyone up and have them bitch him out about that too. He still almost ran into Murderface, who all but jumped out of his skin and ran to the bathroom without a word. Shame. He was always a nice kid.

He was surprised at how much he was moving as he tried to think of when the last time he had this much shit in his life. Even his childhood room had been sparsely decorated and hospital clean. But in hindsight, his hoarding was frustrating because this was a storage unit he would have to rent. He didn’t even know where he was going to end up staying. He’d have to make some calls as it got later in the day to see where he could crash.

Magnus’ thoughts were interrupted by the door of the apartment shutting as he was loading a box of records. He turned and looked up the steps to see Pickles with a couple of Magnus’ comic long boxes in his arms.

“Hey, dude,” Pickles said, bleary and half-asleep.

There was a flash of anger at the thought of Pickles in his room touching his things. And it was followed by the pure shame of realizing Pickles had seen his trash, his bare and dirty mattress, the disarray he couldn’t blame on ripping apart his room to pack. Signs of someone unwell in some unreachable way. As if it wasn’t obvious enough at this point. Pickles had seen it before, when they first met, after weeks of Magnus insisting they hang out at bars or clubs or the movies or Pickles’ apartment or anywhere but his place. A whole studio apartment with trash that made walking difficult but Magnus swore up and down he knew where things were and that he could handle it. Pickles had helped him clean.

Pickles had helped a lot.

“Hey,” was Magnus’ lame reply.

Pickles set the boxes in the truck bed and stared up at him for a moment in silence. And then they worked together, moving more boxes and amps and just pure bullshit.

“You’ll need to strap the mattress down. I don’t know if we even have any bungee cords or anything,” Pickles observed as the room was almost empty. “You need to see a doctor, too. Your fucking eye socket looks broken, Magnus.”

“Don’t have the money for that right now, since I’ll probably need down payments for rent and shit. And I can go buy some. Storage places should be opening soon anyway. So I can get one set up, drop all the shit in the truck off and come back to get the mattress,” Magnus shrugged. “You can come with, if you want.”

“Ahh, I dunno,” he rubbed a freckled arm awkwardly.

“What, would he get mad?” a hand reached to pick at one of the scabbing scrapes on Magnus’ face. He’d been picking at them all night, Pickles having made a comment about the crusted blood and skin under his nails when he had handed him something. “Or are you scared of me?”

“I don’t give a fuck if he’d be mad or not. And I’m not…” Pickles let the sentence hang. It was a fair thing really, if he was scared.

“You do give a fuck,” replied Magnus. “You guys should, like, talk. He really likes you.”

“Goddammit Mag, shut up,” snapped Pickles. The familiar nickname, in all of his hatred for it, made Magnus feel like he was sinking into a hot bath. It had been a while since he had heard that one and it still shut him up with a goofy smile.

Things were always complicated. Even before last night. It had been decided after their last band blew up for a few reasons (one of those reasons being that Magnus had neglected to tell the drummer and bassist he was sleeping with both of them) that they worked better as “just friends.” And it had been a fine arrangement until Nathan was thrown into the mix. Then it got muddled again despite their combined efforts to ignore it.

“I’ll come with you,” Pickles threw up his hands with a sigh.

They changed out of pajamas into decent clothes, and Magnus realized that one of Pickles’ favorite shirts that had been missing for four years was in the back of his closet. And Pickles gave back Magnus’ leather jacket that he had given him some winter night they went to hang out in the graveyard and Pickles came severely underdressed. They picked out the cheapest, shiftiest storage unit place in the yellow pages to drive out to. At least they came with their own locks despite Magnus spending the ride to the hardware store for bungee cables talking about how that meant the owner had a skeleton key and all of his Wolverine comics were gonna get swiped. That nervous chatter extended into their shopping as they looked over cables and ropes until Pickles finally shushed him. The ride back to the apartment was mostly quiet other than the cassette Magnus had playing, the owner of the truck’s Hank Williams cassette being cast off into the back somewhere.

The hallway was more cramped and harder to navigate with two grown men and a queen-sized mattress than Magnus or Pickles remembered, since they were the ones who had put it in there in the first place. Maybe it was because there was a third person who had helped move it in and the only available hand was Skwisgaar, who was staring angrily from the kitchenette before sticking his nose up in the air with disdain.

“You wanna go to that diner, get some coffee?” Magnus asked as they settled in the truck again. “I need something to eat, man.”

“Fuck it, I do too,” Pickles said. A beat of silence before turning his head. “So, I have a question. Were you and Nathan…like…”

The white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel was enough of an answer.

“For a little bit,” the shrug from Magnus was unconvincingly noncommittal. All casual like. Again, things were complicated. “He’s uhm…well, I dunno. Sweet guy. I always thought he had more of an eye for you, though.”

Two years was not a little bit. Paranoid thoughts after midnight when Nathan and Pickles spent too long out at the bar were not Nathan’s real emotions. But that was too much to get into so early in the morning. Not with everything else.

“I never thought that. Thought you guys snuck off a hell of a lot at parties, though. You aren’t subtle,” Pickles said through a smile, strained and sad. “Never were. Sending me that big ass girly drink at that one gay bar in Atlanta. With the umbrellas and shit. Back when you had a full beard and not…this lil’ thing.”

“God shut up. Don’t talk about that,” Magnus leaned against the headrest with a laugh as PIckles twirled the tip of his goatee in his fingers. “Look, it worked didn’t it? You still-”

He stopped, coughing awkwardly. They had still danced, Pickles teasing about Magnus’ two left feet and lack of rhythm (“You said you play in a band and you can’t even find a beat to step to? Really?”). They still went out the back door and Pickles got on his knees pretty as a picture and-

“We had fun,” Pickles said finally. “Even if Roman Candles didn’t work out.”

“Even if Dethklok didn’t work out. For me,” the bitterness of Magnus’ voice cut through the nostalgia. “Will you even miss me? Like, at all?”

Despite everything I’ve done, and not just last night was left unsaid.

“I-I don’t know, man. I mean, yeah?” Pickles shrugged. “I’ll miss who you were. But you…last night wasn’t you. That isn’t who I met in that bar, wasn’t the guy I was with for a few years, that…that wasn’t my friend, dude. I don’t know if you’re drinking really bad again, or if you’re back on something but-”

“Well, I’ll miss you,” Magnus interrupted as he cranked the truck. “Let’s get that coffee.”


	4. sunday morning (monday morning? who keeps track of time)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> magnus hammersmith/pickles the drummer, mature
> 
> pickles is late paying the rent and ends up being later than expected because of magnus (from the prompt "i'll drive you to the hospital")
> 
> warning for discussion of drug/alcohol use

All fun and games was a good way of describing the rockstar lifestyle. There was that “Until..” hanging over every party, every binge, waiting to strike. It was all fun and games until someone overdosed, or stole your TV to buy drugs, or someone came back from rehab and stayed sober and not fun, or the money ran out period. But it was fun while it lasted. Even if it really wasn’t the rockstar lifestyle when it was just you, on your bed, in your underwear with another dude smoking a joint while staying up for two days doing…well, a lot of things.

Magnus rationalized that the guy next to him had been a rockstar and he was actively working on becoming a rockstar, so it was close enough to the real thing for right now.

“Do you know what day it is?” asked Pickles suddenly, arm slung over his face. His fingers wiggled in the air trying to reach for the joint. “Gimme.”

“Your guess is as good as mine, honestly. I think it’s Tuesday,” was the half-hearted reply. He passed the joint over to Pickles, who sat up abruptly. “What?”

Pickles pushed Magnus’ hand away and was on his feet faster than he could even explain what the problem was. He was picking through piles of clothes for an outfit of his own, muttering to himself, Magnus blearily watching the scene.

“Oh my fuckin’-oh God-my landlord said-” Pickles was going a mile a minute at this point. “I gotta pay my fuckin’ rent if it’s Tuesday!”

“Oh, shit,” Magnus’ affectation was flatter than he meant, sounding bored and disinterested, but fuck he was tired. “Hang on, let me get my shit together and I’ll drive you over.”

Joint discarded in the bedside ashtray for later use, Magnus heaved himself up off his bed and began to dig for his own clothes. Pickles was swearing up a storm about how he had a closet, he should use it, not leave his shit laying everywhere (though there was plenty of PIckles’ shit laying around as well) while tugging a shirt over his head. Which turned out to almost hit his knees, staring down at it incredulously.

“Didn’t know you wear dresses. Very, uh, Dee Snider,” teased Magnus as he tugged on a pair of jeans. Which were too small, barely going up his thighs. “The hell?”

“Those are mine,” Pickles snapped, taking off the shirt and throwing it at Magnus before catching the jeans tossed his way. “And that’s not mine. I don’t listen to fucking Rush, dude.”

Successfully dressed, the two sluggishly worked their way through Magnus’ apartment to the front door. Then the sun. God, the sun, which was shining down on them so brightly it felt like Magnus’ eyes were about to burn out of his head, a splitting headache shooting through his skull. As his eyes adjusted he realized it was barely even sunny out. It was overcast, and raining, and he realized just how fucked up he still was.

“God I’m still…ugh,” Magnus groaned as he dragged his hand over his face.

“I told you to stop before you did, like, five more lines, I think,” was Pickles’ dry reply. Magnus saw he was squinting up at the sun too. “God we need to hurry up, I think it’s like three in the afternoon already.”

Pickles was down the steps, at Magnus’ car and jiggling the locked door aggressively faster than Magnus could even blink. He stared up at him with a dirty look and jerked his head impatiently. Fair enough, since he was about to be evicted apparently. So Magnus, the man of bright ideas that he was, jogged down every other step. The heel of his shoe slipped on a wet step and he heard Pickles yell “Jesus!” before he realized that the concrete of the sidewalk was coming at him very, very fast.

“Are you okay?” Pickles yelled. “Mag?”

Magnus was currently laying on the sidewalk, legs splayed out and arms crushed under him, the metallic taste of blood in his mouth as it poured from his nose. And his ankle fucking hurt. He seriously considered just laying there in the drizzle, hair covering his face and blocking out the light, and going to sleep or dying. Whichever came first.

“Magnus?” Pickles’ voice was closer now and Magnus felt him move his curtain of hair to check on him. “Jesus, what’s wrong?”

“I can’t stand,” his voice was a small whine, thin and high. “I broke my fucking leg, man. I had to have, or-or something.”

“You’ve not even tried to st-okay, okay. Fine,” Pickles grabbed his arm and tugged. “Get your ass up so we can go to the hospital.”

With a dramatic groan Magnus was pulled to his feet, wobbling and leaning against Pickles with most of his weight. The two walked to Magnus’ car as steadily as possible considering Magnus’ limping and Pickles’ weighed down weaving. Pickles eased Magnus into the passenger seat before almost falling into the driver’s seat.

“How do you pull up the seat?” Pickles asked. He looked over to see Magnus, who was leaning against the headrest with his eyes closed and a grimace on his face. “You can fuckin’ talk, asshole.”

“There’s a lever under the seat…reach down…should be able to scoot it up that way,” Magnus said. “God this shit hurts. And my shirt’s ruined too, isn’t it?”

“It’s just a shirt, dude,” Pickles was grumbling more to himself than even talking to Magnus as he cranked the car. He continued talking over Magnus’ offended complaining that he had gotten this shirt during the Signals tour and it was irreplaceable. “God, I’m gonna have to drive you to the hospital and I’m gonna be homeless because what am I gonna say? Oh, my fuckin’ boyfriend fell down a flight of steps like a dumbass and I had to drive him to get his leg fixed up?”

Both of them jolted in surprise at the music suddenly blasting from the radio, Pickles grabbing the knob to mute it. Then there was a deathly silence. Pickles was white-knuckling the steering wheel as he reversed the car, quietly hoping that what he said wasn’t going to be mentioned.

“Boyfriend,” Magnus repeated suddenly after a few minutes on the road.

“I’m-we’ve-I’ve done a lot of cocaine in the past couple of days,” was the stammered excuse. He looked at Magnus out of the corner of his eye. “I’m exhausted, you’re exhausted-”

“I did more than you. Didn’t call you my boyfriend, though,” there was a small smile on Magnus’ face as he cuddled in on himself, trying to get comfortable. “Might start.”

They were silent the rest of the drive. And Pickles about blew a gasket when they arrived at the hospital to find out that Magnus’ leg was not the shattered mess he had said it was, just that he had sprained his ankle and needed some stitches in his face, and that it was Sunday.

“You fuckin’…I swear to God!” he was pacing now, gesturing up at the ceiling. “You overgrown, stupid baby! ‘Oh my leg’s broken!’ I cannot believe-”

“Thanks for driving me,” Magnus peeped from the bed he was sitting on. “I appreciate it, man.”

Pickles stopped and looked over at him.

“I-you’re welcome, dude,” he smiled and rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. “Sorry. For like, rushing you out the door for no reason.”

“Hey, can I crash at your place tonight? So you can just go pay your rent in the morning without trying to kill me?” he stuck his tongue out playfully. “Besides, I think I left some shit over there, too.”

They paused, the dawning realization that they were Hansel-and-Gretal-ing their belongings between their apartments hitting both of them. Which meant something that they didn’t want to really acknowledge at this point.

“Sure, dude,” Pickles said. “I think I have some tequila at my place, still. Wanna see if you get anything fun here, rent a movie, have a few drinks?”

“Sounds like a date,” Magnus replied with a grin.


	5. an unexpected chuckle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> magnus hammersmith/nathan explosion, teen
> 
> nathan's laugh is a little less brutal than expected (from the prompt "i like your laugh")

“And I told this fucking asshole-” Magnus interrupted himself with a snicker and a sip of his beer. “I told him that he needed to get his goddamn eyes checked. Because if he thought my ugly ass was a chick, then well-”

The two on the sofa devolved into a fit of laughter, story forgotten and left unfinished. Which is how a lot of Magnus’ stories went. He met a crazy person one time, they said something weird to him and Magnus said something snappy in turn. That’s where it would end and he would fold in on himself in laughter, a wheezy little sound that was rounded out with a smoker’s cough more often than not. Nathan was the easiest to amuse with this, Nathan who would sit with rapt attention until Magnus’ first titter of laughter, which would send him into a fit of his own. Then the two would be in a feedback loop of goofy chuckling until it became the kind of mess that was going on between them right now. He would sit at first, almost vibrating with silent giggling, then it would turn to a soft rumble in his chest like a car sputtering to life.

Tonight though, Nathan had been drinking more and they were alone in the apartment for once. So his laughter was a loud bark that rang off the walls and made Magnus laugh ever harder. It was sort of like a clown’s laugh, in the best way possible, an infectious kind of hyuck-hyuck-ing that was endearing. And then there was a sudden snort and Nathan’s face was bright red before he buried it in his hands.

“Oh my Godddd,” Magnus chuckled, leering forward and tugging on one of Nathan’s thick arms trying to pull his hand from his face. “What was that?!”

“Shut up,” Nathan grumbled as he opted to sulk behind his curtain of hair. “God, don’t fuckin’ talk about that, I hate it when I do that!”

“Noooo,” the slurred statement was as genuine as possible, Magnus all but crawling into Nathan’s lap to try and shove his face against his. “That was so-”

“Stop,” he groaned in turn. “Don’t say it.”

“-cute,” he beamed at him.

Nathan blinked in surprise, letting Magnus hook his fingers in Nathan’s hair to pull it out of his face. He gave him an odd look as his blush deepened into his cheeks and down into his neck and he sank back into his seat on the sofa.

“Oh,” he said softly. “I thought you were gonna, like, tease me.”

“Why’d I do that?” he asked in turn.

"I dunno," Nathan shrugged, speaking into the opening of his bottle and making it whistle. "Lots of people have, it's...I dunno. Makes me feel dumb."

“Fuck that,” Magnus replied with a wave of his hand. “I like it.”

“Thanks?” he cocked his head to the side. “Thanks.”

They resumed their regular conversation, scooting closer to each other every few minutes, until they were wrapped up in each other. All legs slung over laps, arms around each other, Magnus’ head resting on Nathan’s chest. A comforting and rare display of affection that wasn’t from them sneaking around the apartment they helped pay the rent of, like kids doing something they shouldn’t. Their conversation had died for a moment and they sat in silence, Magnus’ fingers ghosting over the sparse hair on Nathan’s arm.

“Stoppit,” Nathan suddenly said. “Feels weird.”

Magnus complied, hand moving to his side and making the same little circles. Until Nathan grumbled wordlessly and squirmed, a little noise dying in his throat.

“Cut it out,” he growled. Magnus just circled his fingers more. “What, are you twelve?”

“Thirteen, actually,” Magnus replied as he slipped his hand up Nathan’s shirt. “Got that disease, from that book. Benjamin…Benjamin something…”

“The hell are you talkn’ about-” Nathan yelped and he went straight as a board as Magnus’ long nails ran down his side. “Quit!”

His plea fell on deaf ears and he knew it from the way Magnus’ eyes lit up and a smile broke out on his face. The cat was out of the bag, as it were. Nathan thought about how easy it would be to just gently lift Magnus up and set him on the other side of the room. But he was soon caught up in a fit of laughter and he was spilling beer on his shirt and the floor while flailing onto his back. He felt like a turtle, rocking back and forth, Magnus sitting on his stomach and grinning devilishly.

“Quit, goddammit!” he choked out between laughing. “Why-”

Then it happened. A little snort escaped him faster than he could shut his mouth and Magnus let out a triumphant cackle.

“Uncle! You motherfucker!” Nathan hollered. “Uncle!”

Magnus at the very least respected the uncle system, sitting back on Nathan and looking down at him smugly.

“Get the hell off me,” Nathan chuckled as he ran a hand over his hot cheek. “I’m serious, man, don’t sit on me. Ol’ bony ass.”

“I like the view,” Magnus shrugged casually, looking at his fingernails.

Nathan grunted and sat up, sending Magnus wheeling back with a surprised squeak. His hands were planted on either side of Magnus’ shoulders and he smiled as he watched Magnus’ Adam’s apple bob in his throat from a heavy swallow.

“Well, I like this view better,” Nathan said.

Magnus raised his eyebrows at him and Nathan felt skinny legs hook around his waist, hands reaching up to tug his shirt up over his torso. And Nathan bit back another yelp and his back stiffened when fingers skittered over his side.

“I swear to fuckin’ God, man!” growled Nathan. “Do I have to, like, tie your hands up to get you to stop this shit?”

“Well…” Magnus grinned. “Since you brought it up, and all.”

The two looked at each other for a moment, red faces partially obscured by black and brown hair, before Magnus’ face twisted with a muffled chuckle. And they broke into another fit of laughter, pressing their foreheads together and muffling each other with kisses.


	6. come here, short stack

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> pickles the drummer/magnus hammersmith, mature
> 
> after an argument, magnus decides to be petty (from the prompt "height difference kisses")
> 
> warning for talk of drug use

The fight had actually gotten kind of ugly. Worse than their usual squabbles at least. Both had been short on their part of the water bill and that was the match that lit the fuse. Especially when it was discovered that it was because Pickles had found a new guy who sold “like, really good weed” and Magnus had finally caved and bought a stupid statue of Lobo or the Crow or some other gothic comic book guy. About one hundred bucks later for the both of them and Pickles was left still soapy in the shower and yelling. After stupid kid hobbies this and dumbass stoner bullshit that, the two were at different edges of the apartment seething at each other.

“Where is my goddamn bong?!” Pickles yelled from the bedroom. “And my weed?!”

“Which bong?” Magnus snapped back.

“The one that looks like a tree!” the voice was traveling now, coming down the hallway. A pause at the bathroom. “Fuck!”

“I bought that one, that one is mine! And I don’t fuckin’ know?” an especially loud, off-key chord was played on the guitar in Magnus’ hand as Pickles began to talk again. “If it cost you so much money, why’d you misplace the shit in the first place?”

An exasperated groan rang from the hall. Pickled walked into the living room and snooped around. The usual places were bong-less, for once in their residency at the apartment. The coffee table, the shelves with their vinyl, the little half wall that separated the kitchen and living room. Magnus lounged in the two kitchen chairs, feet propped up in one as he played. Pickles paused as he stood in the kitchen and narrowed his eyes at the sight before him. He looked over at Magnus, who grinned up at him innocently.

“Get your feet off the chair,” demanded Pickles. “I need it.”

Magnus shook his head, sending a light kick at Pickles’ hands as he tried to push his feet away. Angrily huffing, Pickles stared up at the fridge. Which is where his bong and that brand new expensive weed sat pretty as a picture. The humiliation of having to stand on tip-toes was bad enough, especially when he realized they were placed far back enough to where he could only ghost the tips of his fingers over them.

“Magnus!” he whined, looking over at Magnus as he continued noodling. “Please?”

There was a pause. Pickles sighed heavily again and crossed his arms.

“Babe, I’m…I’m real sorry,” he offered as sweetly as he could. “Can you-?”

“Are you actually sorry, or do you want your pot?” Magnus replied with a smirk, setting his guitar down all the same.

Magnus stood, cracking his back leisurely, Pickles watching him with expectant eyes. And yet another sigh of annoyance at the way that Magnus so easily just reached and plucked both off the top of the fridge. Pickles smiled and reached for them, groaning in annoyance as both were held over Magnus’ head.

“Dude-!” he whined. “I’m really, really sorry, man. I didn’t mean to yell like that…it’s…y’know, stressful right now. I fucked up.”

“I fucked up too, it’s okay,” replied Magnus as he shifted from foot to foot awkwardly. Pickles reached ineffectively above his head and stood on his toes again, trying to make a grab for his paraphernalia. “Hang on, now, you’ve not apologized thoroughly.”

A pause. Pickles turned his head up at him and laughed, fists balling up in the front of Magnus’ shirt to pull him down. It was a sweet peck on the lips first, Pickles cracking an eye open as he watched Magnus’ arms lower slightly. The kiss deepened for a moment longer and his hands very slowly moved from the front of Magnus’ shirt to sneak towards his arms. Fingers lightly touched the plastic bag and glass again, sneaking them away gently.

“Hey-!” Magnus laughed against his mouth, pulling back to see Pickles cradling both against him possessively. “You sneaky bastard!”

“M-hm! Best trait of mine. Wanna see if anything good’s on tv?” he smiled up at him smugly. Magnus leaned down again, kissing the top of his head, and Pickles tugged the patch of facial hair just starting on his chin. “C’mon, dude.”


	7. when are you going to get out of here

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> magnus hammersmith/nathan explosion, mature
> 
> nathan wants to say goodbye before magnus leaves for good (from the prompt "angry kiss")

Amp. Guitar. Suitcases. Most of his bullshit already at the door. A truck was idling outside. His hand still tingled, worse in his fingertips and radiating up his arm. The sound of shuffling, dragging, heavy boots on the floor. Everyone sat in the kitchen unhelpfully, barely turning their heads at the noise, heavy sighs and incomprehensible mumbling. The wound on his shoulder still throbbed. His eyes were heavy. But he still sipped the tasteless instant coffee in the chipped mug. It was his. He’d told Nathan the story about the tourist spot where he got it. But he couldn’t remember what it was.

“You can just go to your room or somethin’, dude,” Pickles urged quietly as the door shut again.

“No,” was Nathan’s stiff reply.

The door opened again and the protest on Pickles’ lips died, everyone falling into silence again. A swollen and still bleeding face peered at them angrily for a moment before disappearing down the hall again.

Swisgaar was the first to go to his room. Then Murderface.

“Is this all your shit?” Pickles finally barked in frustration. Magnus paused at the door, a bundle of rolled-up posters under his arm and a few plastic bags in his other hand. “Well?”

“Yeah, this is it. I’m gone now,” Magnus grumbled, slamming the door behind him.

“Thank fuck. You headin’ to bed?” standing, Pickles ran a hand over Nathan’s shoulder, examining his stitchwork. Good for torn pants from climbing fences, maybe not good for the skin.

“I’m gonna grab a smoke, then go to bed,” he looked up at Pickles and forced a smile. “Thanks, man.”

There was a quiet in the apartment when Pickles left that was smothering, despite the quiet that had persisted beforehand. Nathan stood, grabbing his pack of cigarettes and lighter. He looked at it and grunted in frustration. White, with a red Sharpie doodle of a demon face and a little MH on the other side. That would get tossed in a little bit.

The night was muggy and hot because of course it was, it was fucking July in Florida. What else would it be? Nathan leaned over the railing in front of the apartment, lit his cigarette, and stared out into nothing. His eyes wandered to the parking spaces and he gripped the rail when he saw the still idling truck and a tall, thin figure leaned against it. The tiniest pinpoint of a cigarette glowed in the dark, barely illuminating a face. Nathan descended the flight of steps, bare feet and jeans scraping on the concrete, and tossed his cigarette in frustration. Magnus looked at him with wide eyes and took a step back.

“Nate-” he began softly, but it was interrupted by a hand on the collar of his jacket.

“Don’t call me that,” Nathan snarled. “Why the fuck are you here still? You said you were gone.”

“I can’t have a fucking cigarette?” Magnus yanked himself away. “What are you gonna do, beat my shit in more? Just fucking kill me and be done with it if you are.”

That gave Nathan pause. He had heard that before, just not directed at him. Egging on people in fights at bars and parties. Drunk and being rolled over on his stomach so he wouldn’t choke on vomit. Standing on a sharp cliff above the lake on a camping trip. Just kill me. Just let me die. It had been a familiar song from Magnus that had hurt countless times but now it did nothing. And that hurt more. Anger and sadness welled up in Nathan’s gut and boiled in his veins, his left hand reaching out to grab Magnus by his jaw. He watched the way his face twisted in on itself as his mouth, tugged into a pained and scared grimace, pulled against his cheeks.

“I’ll miss you,” he said softly. Magnus started in surprise, eyebrows raising.

He was about to say something, but Nathan didn’t care what. And with a selfish, stupid impulse Nathan tugged his face towards him in a kiss. Were Magnus’ lips always so chapped? He wasn’t sure. His senses were overwhelmed by the smell of the humid air and the taste of tobacco and blood and hate. But Magnus still leaned into him, a thin hand tenderly snaking around his wrist and a calloused thumb rubbing his skin, and Nathan heard a soft noise from him. A tiny exhale as his lips parted. Nathan pulled away, released the crushing grip on Magnus’ face and spat on the ground in disgust with himself.

“Go,” he growled.


	8. well, we got very, very sloppy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> nathan explosion/charles offdensen, mature
> 
> the night that charles went out drinking with dethklok was...interesting, and there needs to be a discussion about it (from the prompt "forbidden kiss")

Maybe it was a mistake, taking Charles out, but it was a fun mistake. Even if most of it was a blur. Nathan remembered hands in his hair, glasses digging into his cheek as hot faces pressed together, fumbling with shirt buttons, lips sweet and sticky from Cosmopolitans on his. It had been the highlight of his whole fucking week.

Maybe it was a mistake.

“You know why I called you in here, right?” Charles asked after a week of awkward glances and mumbled responses from Nathan during meetings. He had been cool and collected the entire time like nothing had happened. He was still doing it and it set Nathan’s nerves on edge.

“Uh, yeah…well…maybe? I dunno,” the response from Nathan was feigned ignorance. He slumped in the chair and felt the armrests squeeze against him. It made him claustrophobic.

“Well I, ah, I just wanted to clear the air a little. Make things less…” a wave of his hand, Charles Offdensen for once at a loss for words. His watch glinted in the light of his office, Nathan paying attention to anything other than his eyes. But Charles had never bothered him about eye contact. He was one of the few who hadn’t. “…less awkward, I suppose. I just wanted to apologize. That was incredibly unprofessional behavior and I don’t-”

“I didn’t mind,” it was out of him faster than he expected. Nathan felt his cheeks turn hot and he looked at his hands. His nail polish was chipped. “It…it was fun. I liked it.”

There was the sound of a chair gently scraping on stone. Footsteps. Two dark brown leather shoes approached his field of vision. He looked up to see Charles leaning against the front of his desk at an attempt at looking casual. And he was on his feet faster than he expected, an unsteady stumble.

“It’s still not professional of me to conduct myself like…like that,” Charles stared up at him over his glasses. “And what happened between us was especially unprofessional. I just want you to know that this won’t change how I view you, or the band, or anything like that. No hard feelings, no special treatment, I won’t treat you any differently.”

“Huh?” Nathan reared his head back in confusion. “I don’t…I don’t…I want to…”

Words were failing him. Charles’ eyebrows furrowed in confusion, watching Nathan as he hemmed and hawed, trying to structure a sentence.

Maybe it was a mistake.

“I don’t care?” said Nathan finally. His face was hotter. His hands were shaking, slipping in and out of his pockets out of nervous habit. “I…I like you. It was fun.”

“It was,” Charles admitted. Another expression of surprise from Nathan. “But, I don’t think this is something we should continue doing.”

A pink flush crept into Charles’ cheeks and spread to his ears as a heavy hand rested on his shoulder. He placed his hand over Nathan’s. Not to remove it, but to run his fingers over his skin. It was a soft and gentle touch that made Nathan’s heart melt. He was hunching lower now as Charles stood upright from his desk. His other hand laced through Nathan’s hair, starting at his scalp and pulling through to the ends, spilling between his fingers. Nathan thought it looked like he was playing with tar.

“It was fun,” Charles said softly. “I enjoyed myself.”

Their noses were brushing together now. foreheads pressed together. Nathan’s other hand ran over Charles’ jaw gently. there wasn’t even a faint scratch of stubble.

“Do you think this is stupid?” Nathan’s voice was a quiet rumble.

“No. No I don’t,” the reply from Charles was so quiet it was almost a whisper.

His lips weren’t sweet or sticky this time, but soft and tasted of chapstick. The feel of pomade against Nathan’s fingers. Those hands running up his arms, wrapping around his neck. Nathan’s on the small of his back and the back of Charles’ head.

It wasn’t a mistake.


	9. comfortably goofy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> nathan explosion/skwisgaar skwigelf, mature
> 
> it's hard to make out with someone when you both can't keep a straight face (from the prompt "giggly kiss")

The bottle of Vodka was sweating on the coffee table and smoke still hung heavy in the air. The movie on the TV had stopped long ago and the screen had turned to snow. The two figures on the sofa had been distracted from it a while ago. Hands were dragging across the sweaty back of Nathan’s shirt, fingertips tugging at the hem, calloused fingers running over the moles and freckles across the soft broadness of his skin. Thicker fingers were tangled in feather-soft blonde hair, tugging at the scalp, others gently pulling loose strands that were stuck to Skwisgaar’s face. Nathan pulled away for a brief moment and looked at the way dim light bounced off high cheekbones and a prominent nose, illuminating blue eyes to the point where they looked like they were glowing. He wanted to say something but his sluggish brain was failing him. Brain cells slowly being strangled by the alcohol, the cologne in his nose, the skin against his, the lips on his.

“Why you starings?” Skwisgaar asked softly.

Nathan shrugged. There was just a way that Skwisgaar looked that he couldn’t place. Couldn’t name. Almost as if speaking it outloud was silly, too much, something that Skwisgaar wouldn’t want to hear.

“Tells me,” he prodded. Ran a hand over his side. Nathan squirmed and made a noise, making those blue eyes light up further. “Ohh?”

“Don’t!” Nathan laughed and reached to grab the wrist of the offending hand. He pulled it over Skwisgaar’s head and grabbed the other, locking his wrists together against the armrest of the sofa. “You know I don’t like that!”

“Oh, you ams ticklish though! I can’t just not takes advantage!” Skwisgaar squirmed lamely in Nathan’s grasp. There wasn’t much of an attempt at escape. “Is cute!”

“I’m not cute!” Nathan shot back. “I am dark, and brooding, and hardcore and shit.”

“And cute,” the little laugh from Skwisgaar, that almost somehow had an accent of its own, bounced around in Nathan’s skull. Light and lilting. “You can multitasks. You ams very talented, after all.”

“Shut up, dude,” he laughed softly.

“Well, makes me,” was the taunt from Skwisgaar.

Nathan leaned down into a kiss immediately, trying to stifle his laughter, Skwisgaar’s own lips twisting into a smile. His hands gently cupped Skwisgaar’s face and he chuckled at the grunt from Skwisgaar as his full body weight sank onto him. Those thin, nimble fingers reached under his shirt again and there was something so soft and caring about their touches that Nathan could melt. Just ooze onto the stained carpet below them. It was Skwisgaar’s turn to giggle at a kiss on his neck, shoulder jerking up involuntarily.

“We’re just not…not doin’ well with this,” Nathan mumbled against him. “Carryin’ on and shit.”

“Ams healthies,” Skwisgaar replied, turning his head to smile. “If you can’t laughs with someone doing stuff like this, ams you really comfortables with them?”

That made Nathan stop and thin. He had a point. And it wasn’t just the liquor and store-brand grape drink combo, or the blunts, or anything else. He was just…naturally comfortable around Skwisgaar, even sober. He usually had such a calmness to him, it radiated off his entire being like solar flares and it set Nathan’s constantly going mind at ease. The way he smiled and listened and asked questions when Nathan was off talking about things he liked, the hands on his shoulder after an argument with one of the other guys about rent money or practice, the voice in his ear during moments like this.

“Yeah,” he finally said.

“Yeah,” echoed Skwisgaar. “So don’t stops being a goofballs with mes. That’s why I likes you.”


	10. my lazarus has returned to me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> nathan explosion/charles offdensen, mature
> 
> charles is back from the dead, and nathan couldn't be happier (from the prompt "one small kiss, then devouring each other")

It was like seeing a ghost. But, ghosts weren’t real, as far as Nathan was concerned. Ghosts were not tangible beings that everyone saw. Because everyone saw him. Ghosts couldn’t negotiate contracts. And a ghost wasn’t waiting for the band after their show. But Charles was.

“Good work, boys,” he said with a small smile as if everything was normal. “Go ahead and freshen up, get in the Dethcopter. Let’s go home.”

There were mutters of agreement, of welcome back, of what the fuck as four emotionally and physically exhausted figures dispersed to their dressing rooms. Charles watched with a small smile on his face, back in his old place. Nathan stood in place numbly and Charles turned his head to look at him. The look on his face softened as he approached.

“I don’t…” Nathan began, brain clicking into place. “I don’t…understand.”

“It’s hard to explain. I don’t know if I really could, even if I was allowed,” Charles said gently.

Allowed? Nathan didn’t know Charles had to be allowed by anyone to do anything. He figured of all people, Charles was in complete control. Which is why it was so shocking when he died. Because Charles had died. In front of him. He had seen the body. Had desperately felt for a heartbeat and a pulse on his neck with Toki’s panicked, slurred wails in his ear. There had been nothing. Doctors told them there was nothing.

They buried him.

But here he stood. They had closed the distance between each other at some point. At least Charles had. Nathan still stood there like he didn’t know what to do. Because he didn’t. What did one do, exactly, when someone comes back from the dead?

“Charles, I don’t-” he was still stuttering and stumbling over his words. “I wish you’d told me…if you were gonna like…fake your death and all.”

It hadn’t been fake. But he wanted to say it was fake. That was easier. Charles ran a hand across his cheek gently with a sympathetic gaze. Like he knew Nathan knew it hadn’t been fake, and he knew Nathan was believing that for his own good. He had the look of someone who wished he could explain himself.

“I’m sorry,” Charles said softly. A thumb ran over Nathan’s skin as his jaw was touched, catching on the sweaty white greasepaint. “I’m so, so sorry.”

Nathan’s face was pulled down to Charles’ level and their lips met. Of course, Nathan had missed everything about Charles in the months that he was gone. His voice, his smile, his rare laugh, his very presence in Mordhaus. But how much he missed his touch hadn’t even thought to enter his brain in his grief - until that moment. They parted and Nathan smiled at the faint, chalky whiteness on Charles’ lips.

“I missed you so much,” Charles continued as Nathan wrapped his arms around him. “I’ll try my best to explain everything to you boys, but I know that you especially-”

He was cut off by a grunt as Nathan pulled him into a crushing hug and kissed him again. Nathan felt fingers flutter against his shoulders in surprise before digging into his skin. There wasn’t any time for explanations right now. Just making up for lost time. He nipped at Charles’ bottom lip, delighted in the little noise it drew from him, arms still wrapped around him possessively. It was still the same old Charles. The hands that tugged at his hair, the tongue against his, the taste, the smell, the feeling.

This was his Charles, back from his very long vacation, like absolutely perfectly normal. He was just happy to see him again.

Nathan definitely wasn’t afraid of letting him go again.

When they parted again, Nathan looked down at him and smiled breathlessly. Charles adjusted his fogging glasses before touching the suddenly bare parts of Nathan’s face. And then the suddenly white parts of his own. Nathan leaned his head down and pressed their foreheads together with a good-natured laugh. He was probably smearing more paint on his skin, but judging by the way that Charles yanked the collar of his shirt for another kiss, he didn’t seem to mind.


	11. a casual affair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> magnus hammersmith/charles offdensen, mature
> 
> a sour moment in an otherwise fun night (from the prompt "we can never be together kiss")

“Dude, there’s some guy in the bathroom crying.”

The bar was loud, cramped, jostling with life. Charles had no idea why he let himself be dragged out for a night drinking with the boys, especially since he was currently clutching tonic water because he knew he would probably have to drive whoever couldn’t fit in a cab home. The offhand comment from a man behind him made him do a sudden headcount. Nathan was leaned against an amp, almost asleep. Skwisgaar was at the bar talking to a girl. Pickles and Murderface were playing darts. And Magnus was suspiciously absent. Charles heaved himself out of his seat and made his way to the bathroom. It didn’t hurt to check. The music and yelling and other noises were muted when the door closed behind him. He heard a soft noise, a dry gag and saw a familiar pair of legs and boots under the stall.

“Magnus?” he said softly. The boots shifted a little, but there was no response. He knocked on the door. “Magnus, is that you?”

“No,” Magnus replied sourly. There was a groan and the sound of a latch coming undone.

Charles swung the door open and slipped into the stall. Magnus looked up at him with wet, red-rimmed eyes and a tear-streaked face, watching as Charles knelt down on his level.

“What’s wrong?” he asked softly, tucking a loose curl behind Magnus’ ear.

“Just feel bad,” Magnus shrugged. Gestured at the toilet. “Been puking.”

“And crying,” Charles pointed out as he wiped his face. “Something on your mind?”

Magnus shrugged and Charles helped tug him to his feet. Flushed the toilet with his foot. Lead him to the sink to rinse his mouth, clean his face, try and freshen up. There was something wrong, Charles could feel it deep inside of him. It was obvious. It wasn’t a secret at this point when something was wrong with Magnus. He had gotten a little more volatile over the years, a little more sensitive, which considering how he had started out made him all but constantly unstable now. Charles had tried to be patient with him. And he is patient. They ease out of the bar for fresh air, Magnus essentially propped against the wall with a cigarette in hand, eyes straining to see the few stars in the night sky. His other hand reached up and played with the necklace he was wearing.

“Mag,” pressed Charles gently, a hand on Magnus’ arm. “What’s wrong?”

He was still staring up at the sky. There was a sinking feeling in Charles’ stomach as he watched Magnus’ head dip down to look at him. His hand moved from the necklace to his goatee, tugging and twirling it in his fingers. He had the look of someone who wanted to say something. And considering past conversations, Charles wondered if something was going to be brought up again.

“I love you,” said Magnus softly.

There it was. Charles looked up at him sadly, watching as big brown eyes desperately scanned his face for something. Anything. To hear it back. But he couldn’t think of what to say. Because two years ago, there was an understanding when whatever this was started. Neither of them could do a proper relationship, right? It was just a casual thing. Sex. Hanging out at Charles’ on the weekends. Simple.

But over the years Charles figured out that Magnus Hammersmith was far from simple.

Charles leaned upwards, pulling gently on Magnus’ shoulder, and kissed him softly. When they pulled away he smiled at him sadly as a wave of anxious nausea hit him.

“I know,” was all Charles could say. His lips refused to say anything else. No matter how badly he wanted to.

He reached up to touch Magnus’ cheek and while he felt his heart break when Magnus reared his head back and away from the touch, he understood. Magnus turned his gaze back up to the sky again and took a shaky drag of his cigarette, hand twisting in the silver chain again.

“I’ll be inside in a minute,” Magnus muttered, voice cold and brisk. “Don’t wait up.”

Charles pause in the doorway and cast another look at Magnus as the door started to shut, watching as Magnus slid down the wet bricks onto the concrete, head buried in his hands.


	12. jail cell rock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> magnus/pickles, mature
> 
> magnus and pickles wake up in an unexpected place
> 
> from the prompt "jail cell, blackout, lipstick"

It hadn’t been Pickles’ first time in a cell. Or the first time he woke up in one completely unaware of how he had gotten there in the first place. It had just been the first time in a while. The fact that he hadn’t experienced that level of disorientation in a while threw him off. And the realization that he didn’t exactly have a ton of Snakes ‘n’ Barrels money or fame for possible bail set him on edge. He hoped that it was for something minor, just a regular public intoxication, not resisting arrest or armed robbery or some horseshit that might actually take him to court or prison. Again, the money that could help clear this up in a good out of court settlement was far, far from his fingertips at this point.

The sound of a different cell door opening had woken him up. Pickles rubbed his eyes and inhaled sharply. The conversation and lights and smells all flew around like little cartoon birds around his head before settling in his skull to nest painfully. The feeling of nausea and sluggishness associated with a hangover-inducing migraine made him lurch forward for a second, rub his face and smack dry lips.

He sat there for a moment, face in his hands, trying to focus. Phones rang. The distant sound of crying bounced off tile. Muted conversations he heard two words of at best. And right next to him, at his side, a snore. A thin, high one that ended in a click. A snore that was oddly comforting in its immediate familiarity - considering how Pickles would usually wake up to it at three in the morning. Usually accompanied by a nightmare of being eaten alive by a snake, or strangled by vines, only to find long limbs wrapped around him and hair that was not his in his face and mouth. And the source of the snore’s face pressed against him, breathing hotly on his skin and whining at any attempt Pickles made at prying himself free.

Pickles looked down next to him and saw the source in the flesh. Right now, it was a lump of curls with long legs stretched out the length of the bench, boot-clad feet dangling off the edge. He groaned and sat up against the concrete wall before reaching a hand out to shake the lump’s shoulder.

“Magnus,” Pickles muttered. “Magnus. Magnus? Magnus!”

“Five more minutes,” was the muffled response, Magnus’ face buried in the jacket bunched under his head in a makeshift pillow. A hand reached out from under his body to swat Pickles’ away in annoyance.

“Five fuckin’ nothin’, dude, wake your ass up,” he hissed in annoyance. “We’re in jail, dipshit.”

“What?” Magnus jolted awake, legs kicking out, head lifting up to look around at their surroundings. At the realization they were, in fact, in jail, he groaned. “Ohhh, fuck…”

“Yeah, oh fuck!” Pickles replied incredulously. “You know what happened?”

“No? You...don’t?” Magnus heaved himself up with a grunt, stretching his arms and cracking his neck. “Shit.”

Pickles inspected him for clues. He couldn’t see himself, but if he saw his apparent partner in crime, there might be a hint as to how they got here. A vivid bruise was forming on Magnus’ cheek but beyond that, he looked normal. His hair was wild and puffed out like an annoyed cat, his shirt was annoyingly unbuttoned three buttons too far and-

“The fuck’s this?” Pickles asked suddenly, jabbing an accusing finger at his chest.

Black lipstick. Everywhere. On his face, on his neck, leading down into his shirt. Magnus looked down at himself, rubbed one of the marks and looked at his fingers. Pickles rubbed his own lips and saw the back of his hand come back clean. That wasn’t his.

“Lipstick?” said Magnus with a cautious tone. Pickles crossed his arms and sucked his teeth, making Magnus roll his eyes. “We’re not arguing about this of all fuckin’ things right now! And you, you’re covered in the shit too!”

He dragged another finger across Pickles’ face and showed it to him. Red. Okay, fine. What’s good for the goose was good for the...other...goose. But that doesn’t negate the fact that there was an implication of two missing people in this equation. One of whom was wearing black lipstick and was going to get a thorough fucking talking to if Pickles got his hands on them. Pickles looked around at the slumped over drunks and surly faces that were their new roommates. None of them struck Pickles as his type and while Magnus had lower standards, their faces were bare too.

“Mag. Don’t fuck with me. If you remember anything, tell me, dude!” Pickles begged. He didn’t even care about the lipstick at this point. He just wanted some kind of answer. “Even if it involves you new lil’ girlfriend or whatever-”

“Man, if you don’t shut the fuck up about this I’m kicking a drum in when we get home,” snapped Magnus in turn. “Like, what if we had a foursome, lucky us! So drop it. We need to...call...someone…”

Pickles decided he was going to pout. That was an easier solution than trying to figure out how they got into this mess, or how they would get out. A hand found his knee, which he jerked away pettily, pulling a heavy sigh from Magnus. They sat like that in silence for a moment. For a long moment, it seemed, as Pickles found himself blinking and opening his eyes to someone being escorted out of the cell. It was cold. He still had a headache. He was sore. And now he was cold on top of everything.

The cold was okay. But the chills that his hangover gave him on top of everything was almost embarrassing, feeling as if everyone could hear his teeth chatter over the commotion going around them. But he sat and suffered and wondered where his jacket went. It was October, so he had to have worn it out. That was his good jacket with the fun patches. He was going to be so mad if he couldn’t fucking find it again. It was probably already lost forever.

The shivering was offset by the feeling of denim being tucked around his shoulders. Pickles was jerked out of his thinking and he slipped his arms inside the sleeves. They fell over his hands like a kid playing dress up, but it was warm. And smelled like cigarettes and sandalwood and sweat and...Magnus.

“Thanks,” Pickles said softly, cowed by the simple gesture into dropping his anger. Magnus grunted in response. “Thank youuuu.”

“Welcome,” was the reply. Magnus looked over at Pickles and cocked a brow. “You still pissed off at me for something you did too?”

Pickles blinked.

“No,” he grumbled. “Sorry.”

“Apology accepted,” Magnus chuckled as he spoke, nudging Pickles’ foot with his own. Pickles nudged in turn. Jail footsies wasn’t what he pictured when he said yes to the offer of dropping acid and watching star wars as a date a few months ago, but it somehow felt fitting. “Very grown of you, Pickles.”

Before Pickles could say something back, the cell door rolled up.

“Hammersmith? And…” the officer sighed. “Drummer? Bail’s posted.”

“Oh, thank fuck! Me! Us!” Pickles yelped, jumping up and waving awkwardly like it was a roll call.

“You call someone?” asked Magnus as they walked out. Pickles shook his head, slipping his arm in Magnus’ to draw him close. “I didn’t. Who the hell-”

“Me,” a voice rumbled next to them, making them both jump. “You uh...you called me. For some reason.”

The source and their savior was a very displeased, very sleepy Nathan Explosion. Who was standing trying to look stern despite his grogginess in a stained hoodie and pajama pants. Pickles started in surprise, looking up at Magnus for an answer, who shrugged.

“So, you thought drowning in a goddamn fountain was gonna go well, Pickles? Or spitting at a fuckin’ cop, Magnus?” scolded Nathan. “And don’t you two have any other friends? Shit, we’ve hung out three times, y’all.”

So that’s what happened. Why the kid they knew through their dealer was the first number in either of their brains was yet another question they didn’t have the answers for. Or why he posted their bail. Or why they both felt properly reprimanded by someone who was probably in middle school when they were graduating. But things just happen.

“We do, but! Thanks man!” Pickles said happily, reaching out to pat Nathan on the shoulder. “You’re a good one. Our new best friend.”

Nathan rolled his eyes, trying to tug the smile on his face back into a frown. Pickles chuckled to himself as he reached inside of Magnus’ jacket to steal his cigarettes, if he still had them, pulling out a piece of paper instead.

Had a real fun time. Call us. Staci and Luna. XOXOXO.

“Hey!” the call jolted Pickles from his thoughts before he could even process what he was looking at.

The three turned their heads to the source of the sound. Faces pressed against the bars of the next to where Magnus and Pickles had been, two women peered out at them with wide grins. And smeared red and black lipstick on their mouths. One shook her extended thumb and pinky against her head and mouthed “Call me!” while the other blew a kiss. Nathan whistled a sharp note, nodding his approval when Magnus and Pickles looked back at him.

“Good job,” he said before patting Magnus’ arm. “Let’s get you guys home.”

The cold night air was more than welcome when they stepped out into it. The smell of falling leaves, crisp autumn and freedom. Nathan jerked his head at the beat up pickup parked in front of the station and popped the seat back for one of them. Pickles climbed in the back, immediately regretting the decision when both seats were crammed against him to make room for two sets of long legs. But it didn’t matter. If he remembered right, their apartment wasn’t too far away, and it was made alright when a hand reached into the back and found his knee. He smiled and set his own hand on top of it. Nathan gazed into the backseat for a second, eyes scanning Pickles’ face before looking down at the obvious affection, and cocked his head before starting the truck.

“Ohhh!” he said after a few minutes of silence, making both Magnus and Pickles turn tired gazes at him. “Your apartment only has one room!”

They really shouldn’t have laughed. He did drive out in the middle of the night and bust them out. But it couldn’t be helped


	13. i can find you in the dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> nathan/skwisgaar, teen
> 
> what was supposed to be a relaxing getaway turns stressful
> 
> from the prompt "lake, jitters, candles"

It was supposed to be relaxing. A lakeside cabin. Fishing, isolation, privacy, nice weather. Skwisgaar had been reluctantly pulled to the vacation spot, Nathan spending a good month beforehand talking about how he used to go there all the time, how fun it was, all that good stuff. A reward of well-earned downtime after a long tour.

The first two days were nice. The sun was out, warm but not hot, the bugs were kept at bay with sprays and citronella. Nathan was even able to get Skwisgaar to try fishing. They didn’t catch anything and Swisgaar was too squeamish to bait his own hook but they had a good time on still water. Then there was a turn. The bug bites during the day despite their efforts, the humidity climbing as it rained, the general unease that storms brought.

A clap of thunder had stirred Nathan from his nap on the sofa and he sat up to see Skwisgaar staring out the window. Rain clattered against the glass, trees whipped in harsh winds that made the cabin creak and lightning illuminated the dark sky in thin spidery lines. And Skwisgaar sat in a chair staring, playing an unplugged guitar that he had dragged with him.

“Hey,” Nathan called softly. He couldn’t hide a smile when he saw Skwisgaar all but jump out of his skin. “You okay?”

Skwisgaar hummed and nodded absently, eyes still focused on the storm. Nathan walked over to him and set his hands on his shoulders in an attempt at comforting him. He was tense. The reason was unspoken and understood and Nathan felt no need to pry. Another burst of lightning and earth-shattering thunder made Skwisgaar jump under his touch again.

“You saids this was gonna be funs,” Skwisgaar said with a shaky laugh.

“We can still have fun!” Nathan’s reply was quick was he gave Skwisgaar’s shoulders another squeeze. “C’mon, man! We can close the blinds, turn up the TV loud and we can watch a-”

The lights flickered once, twice and then stayed off.

“-movie,” he finished with a groan. Skwisgaar shifted under his hands and he heard a soft, quick inhale. “Hey, hey, hey. Hang on. We’re okay. It’s just...shit...Florida weather. You remember this shit.”

As he continued his soothing, Nathan fished in his pocket for his phone, turning on the flash to illuminate the cabin again. Another crack of lightning sent an eerie glow throughout the room, casting further ghostly shadows across the two men, the taxidermied deer head, the furniture. Nathan pat Skwisgaar one last time before heading over to the linen closet in the hallway. The box on the top of the shelf was what he was looking for, almost running into Skwisgaar when he closed the door and tried to make his way back to the living room.

“Candles,” said Nathan simply.

They made their retreat to the bedroom soon after, lighting enough candles until a warm glow lit up almost the entirety of the cozy space. Flames flickered as they moved and shuffled on the bed, yellowed wax dripping down onto paper plates to protect the wooden furniture. The storm still raged outside and Nathan drowned out the sounds as best he could with his shitty phone speakers. It was just sound, music half-listened to, but anything to blot out the noise was better than nothing.

“You remember your first hurricane down here?” asked Nathan suddenly.

It had been bad, in hindsight, Nathan being unphased by the hurricane sirens when they went off. After years of living on the East coast he had almost become deaf to them, but everyone else had been put on immediate edge. They had packed into Pickles’ room in the apartment, the one without windows, all sitting and waiting it out.

“Yeah,” Skwisgaar replied in a soft voice.

The power had gone out then as well. The wind absolutely screaming as rain crashed onto the roof while a radio played music to distract them and for any attempt at hearing the noise. There were less candles that time, a few pinpoints of light in the middle of their circle as Pickles taught them to play poker with guitar picks and bottle caps as chips.

“That was, like, when I first realized you were really scared of storms,” Nathan paused and laughed. “And rats.”

“Oh, those fuckings things,” groaned Skwisgaar.

It had been fun at first, light conversation, Murderface trying to subtly ask what a good hand was when he didn’t even have one to begin with. Then Skwisgaar had let out an almighty gasp of horror at the realization that the five were seven when two little faces peeked out of Magnus’ hair. Nathan remembered the incredulous laugh from Magnus as he held out one towards Skwisgaar, remembered swatting his hand away as Skwisgaar leaned back as far as he could without getting up and darting out of the room entirely.

He remembered a hand on his own afterwards, fingers lacing together in the dim light.

“Is not so bads now, though,” the statement jerked Nathan out of his nostalgia, turning his head to look over at Skwisgaar. With the candles and how he laid on his back, hands folded over his chest, he almost looked like a corpse at a wake. “I handles it better.”

A crash of thunder that made him jump severely undercut his statement. Nathan rolled onto his side and tried to hide his smile as he draped a heavy arm over him. His hand found Skwisgaar’s face to turn it as they looked at each other. Their lips met and Nathan couldn’t stop himself from smiling further into the kiss as Skwisgaar was still at the next roll of thunder. It was an interesting way to keep him calm during storms but if it worked, it worked. And it worked almost too well as candles snuffed themselves out one by one, wicks drowning in their own wax, until they were eventually in complete darkness again.


	14. lingering

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> magnus/charles, teen
> 
> a quick walk to charles' car is drawn out more than expected
> 
> from the combined prompts "tucking their hands beneath the other person’s shirt, just to watch them break the kiss and gasp in surprise at the sensation of cold/warm hands on their skin" and "kisses from under an umbrella"

“You have an annoying habit of lingering, Mr. Hammersmith.” Charles said softly.

“Annoying?” Magnus repeated with mock incredulousness. “Oh, am I annoying you? I can head out if you want and we won’t do what we had planned at all. Just me by myself in my room with my weed, my movies. Get takeout by myself. Very lonely.”

“M-hm,” hummed Charles in response, barely able to hide the little smile he had. “Feet off the desk.”

“My back hurts,” he replied softly. But he relented and moved his feet onto the carpet below.

“Your back wouldn’t hurt if you sat properly,” was all Charles said. He didn’t have to look up from the paperwork he had laid in front of him to know that Magnus was currently sitting with his back bent in a way that made him resemble a slinky, a capital C or a shrimp. “Few more things to file for the day and I’m all yours.”

That earned a little chuckle. Magnus was almost too quiet as Charles worked. Usually there was a tip-tapping of fingers on his desk or the armrests of the chairs, bored sighing, soft singing as Magnus narrated whatever he was doing or looking at to showtunes. And as Charles looked up from the last of his work he saw why. A pencil, one of Charles’ pencils, was held between his teeth. There were a few like this now - Charles himself was someone who respected writing utensils and now had no way to explain why some of his pens and pencils looked as if a dog got to them. He didn’t even have the energy to comment on it today.

It was raining when the door to Charles’ office building was opened and Magnus groaned. It wasn’t an unpleasant rain, just a light trickle, but Charles still took out his umbrella. He had heard it was going to rain so...why not come prepared?

“You want under?” Charles offered as they stood outside, still secure under the awning. Magnus paused, thought and ducked under the umbrella with him. Stooped, even. Charles’ lips thinned as he tried to hide a smile. “Maybe you should hold it.”

It was only a few feet of walking before Charles had to tug Magnus’ arm down, position his hand, fix the source of the little flecks of water that resided on his glasses. The hand hooked on his elbow lingered for a moment and there was that brief moment of consideration. To just walk, arm in arm, to his car. It was washed away soon enough as Charles thought on it harder and realized there were too many different kinds of backlash to face if anyone saw.

“Where the fuck did you park?” Magnus whined. “It’s humid, my hair is gonna get frizzy.”

Charles smirked. Magnus’ voice from a few years ago rings in his head. “Isn’t conditioner, like, a chick thing?”

“I’m getting wet,” the whine interrupted his thoughts again.

“If you could hold an umbrella right,” Charles stopped them as they got closer to the parking lot, tugging on Magnus’ arm again. “Oh for fuck’s sake, here-”

“I got it!” he protested, holding the umbrella higher, showing how good he was at holding the umbrella by rendering it entirely useless. But that was all the fun, wasn’t it? Charles could tell by the flash of crooked teeth and laugh from Magnus. “Charlie, I got it, man! Calm down! Maybe it’s broken?”

“Broken?” he sputtered in turn, the statement catching Charles so off guard he couldn’t help but laugh. He pulled on the umbrella again to bring it down so it would at least shield them from the rain and smiled up at Magnus.

Everything stopped for a moment. The pitter-patter of raindrops on the plastic above them. The soft rushing of cars driving through puddles. The very distant rumble of thunder, the promise of the rain getting worse as the day wore on. The feeling of lips on Charles’, of stubble on his skin, of cigarettes that were not his on his tongue.

“I missed you,” Magnus mumbled softly.

“It’s been two weeks,” Charles reminded him. But he understood. Things were...hard.

Professional and personal life had mixed in the worst way, hadn’t it?

Charles found himself against a wall, rainwater soaking through his suit jacket and shirt, a hand running through hair that no longer had to be kept up for work. The umbrella was lowered around their heads conspicuously and he couldn’t help but laugh.

“My car-is ten feet away-at the very-least-” he mumbled between kisses. Magnus made a vague noise of recognition but continued, free hand working on Charles’ tie. “We could just-go in there-Magnus-Magnus-hey-”

“Hm?” Magnus finally hummed before pulling away. The tie was loosened suitably and Charles felt fingers on the buttons of his shirt. “I missed you.”

“I missed you too,” soothed Charles. The reassurance seemed to slow Magnus’ attempts at publicly undressing him for a second. He set a hand on Magnus’ cheek and it traveled down his face, his neck, resting on a silver necklace around his throat. “You know, you were complaining about getting wet. I’m absolutely soaked because of you.”

“Well, I love to hear that,” Magnus replied slyly. It took Charles a moment to even process what he said and before he could point out he was missing key anatomy for that, Magnus’ mouth was on him again.

And cold, skinny fingers spidered under Charles’ opened shirt to his skin. In the humidity of the summer rain and the flush that had broken out across his body; Magnus’ already cold body was so jarring that Charles almost cracked his head on the brick when it fell back. And the noise he made was worse, somehow. Worse in the sense that he saw how it made Magnus’ eyes light up, saw the smile that broke out across his face. Worse in how Magnus kissed him again with an eagerness that almost made Charles’ knees buckle. Those cold fingers slipped into his shirt again, calloused fingertips grazing over his collarbone, Charles finally grabbing the hand with both of his own to warm it.

“You wanna go to the car?” he asked as he pulled away, tone more breathless than he wanted to be in public.

One last little kiss before Magnus pulled away from him fully. Charles jerked his chin towards the white sedan, glimmering in the rain and waning light, and slipped his arm through the hook of Magnus’ elbow as they walked the rest of the way.


	15. overbaked

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> magnus/pickles, teen
> 
> things went a bit wrong during baking, leaving pickles with a bad trip
> 
> from the prompt "kiss pressed to the top of the head"
> 
> warning for drug use

Something had gone awry when baking. That’s what the feeling of jitters and nausea that swept through Pickles’ body was. He knew the feeling far too well and knew who exactly to blame. Himself. Magnus had offered his advice before the brownies were even in the oven, when it had been easy to just change the recipe and tweak it. Pickles had eaten a full slice, Magnus had eaten half. And Magnus was currently just sitting and staring at the television, the tinny sound of classic Star Trek fight music blasting through their shitty speakers. All Pickles could focus on was the wrong things on the screen. The blurs of bright technicolor aliens and sets, the weird choreography that made it feel like his head was swimming, the sounds giving him a headache, the feeling of something being wrong making a sweat creep across his forehead.

“Sick,” was all Pickles could announce before he stumbled to the bathroom to vomit.

He resigned himself to the cool tile floor underneath him, draping over the side of the tub as his body relaxed, forehead pressing against it to try and cool down his brain. The sounds from the living room stopped and he couldn’t help but groan. If you were sick, the last person you wanted to take care of you was Magnus. If you just had a cold, he was not who you wanted as your nurse, bristly personality and short temper and weird jokes and no bedside manner. If you were having a bad trip of some kind it was over. Paranoid about the police sirens blocks away? Magnus could whip up a lie about how the cops were coming.

Pickles thought about the last time he got this high, too high this high, and had quietly mumbled something about not being able to understand the movie. Like, couldn’t understand what was being said. He had asked if it was in English or not (he was pretty sure it was in English) and Magnus had responded with...God knows what. Pickles didn’t know. He had asked the question again and gotten the same sort of nothing response. And it continued until Pickles about had an anxiety attack and Magnus, who was still laughing, explained he hadn’t been speaking English.

Hell of a way to find out your boyfriend was bilingual.

So he wasn’t the most excited when the door opened and he turned his swimming vision to the form above him. Magnus looked down at him with hooded, serene eyes and made a little sympathetic noise in the back of his throat before kneeling down at Pickles’ level.

“So I was right about it bein’ too much,” he declared as he ran a hand over Pickles’ sweaty forehead. He pursed his lips into a pout when Pickles shivered at his touch. “Aw, babe. You not havin’ a good time?”

Pickles shook his head and shivered again. Their upstairs neighbor knocked something over in her apartment and he felt like he was going to jump out of his skin. It was just her, right? Not someone knocking on the door? Magnus stood, holding out a hand for Pickles to take and grunting as he helped him heave himself off of the floor. As Pickles washed his face and rinsed out his mouth, he tried to keep the anxiety thrumming through his body in check. Some of it was eased away when he was in bed, curled against Magnus’ side and his head tucked under his chin. Magnus pressed his fingers against his neck behind his ear and hummed.

“Pulse is crazy, man,” he said. “Calm down.”

“I’m trying, dude,” Pickles mumbled sullenly. “It’s hard.”

“I know,” Magnus replied. He ran his hand up and down Pickles’ arm gently and grunted as he reached for the book on the bedside table. “You need to sleep it off. I’ll be right here.”

“What book is that?” he asked, trying to crane his neck instead of sleeping. Magnus flashed him the cover. “When did we get The Hobbit?”

“This is my old copy from like...way back. When it got big in the ‘70s when I was in like, high school and shit. But you should go to bed,” he urged in turn, patting Pickles’ arm again. Magnus turned his head to see the expectant look on Pickles’ face and chuckled. “I’m not reading to you.”

“I don’t feel good,” Pickles pouted.

Magnus paused before sighing dramatically, cracking the book open where the bookmark rested. Pickles’ eyes focused on the cracks in the spine. Well loved, read many times.

“‘Where did you go to, if I may ask?’ said Thorin to Gandalf as they rode…”

And Pickles’ eyes grew heavy and it felt as if he slipped through the sheets themself, the last thing he remembered was the sound of Magnus’ voice growing further and further away, and the feeling of lips pressed into his hair in a kiss.


	16. won't you hold me?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> magnus/nathan, teen
> 
> the two find a quiet moment to themselves at a party
> 
> from the prompt "tentative kisses given in the dark"

Nathan wondered if this was smart. If any of this was a good idea. He remembered his mom chastising him for thinking about asking out a girl he worked with a few years back. Don’t get involved with coworkers like that. Apparently there was a taboo. He remembered Pickles making an offhand comment that working in a band was like working any other business if you wanted to get big. Apparently they were coworkers too.

So maybe this wasn’t smart.

That also didn’t take into account the man in front of him as a person or how the two of them meshed together. Nathan wondered why someone who, by virtue of being almost ten years his senior, wanted to butt heads and argue with him so goddamn much. So many little things - the drama of trying to start a successful band and of five men living together bubbling together in the worst soup possible. But then there were little moments like this. Nathan could see the bonfire in the distance, hear music and laughter, but there was just this. The darkness was cut through with the orange of the fire and the blue of the moonlight, casting odd and contrasting shadows over the two of them.

It made it easier to forgive Magnus when they were like this. Stumbling over tree roots that stuck up from the dirt, leaning on each and muffling laughter as they got further and further from the rest of the party. Nathan couldn’t help but be curious as to why their absence was never missed. They both cut a nice, imposing outline, though Nathan was usually a little bit more noticeable than Magnus due to the width that accompanied his height. But nobody noticed when two of the biggest guys ambled off. He anxiously wondered if people did. If it was an open secret people whispered to each other.

_So, we all know about Nathan and Magnus, right?_

“C’mere,” Magnus’ voice was low and husky as he almost collapsed against a tree. He opened his arms and shot him a crooked smile.

He was drunk. He was always drunk now. If he wasn’t fucked up somehow, that’s when the arguments happened. Nathan didn’t know how to bring it up to him. But fucked up Magnus was the old Magnus from two years ago. Not angry or ready to bite someone’s head off but happy and chill and funny and cool. The Magnus that had sparked something in Nathan he couldn't name for months when he had first seen him.

“Well?” Magnus asked expectantly. There was a concerning flash of the other problem with Magnus now. He had always been sensitive but something seemed to have kicked that into overdrive recently. So his face fell when Nathan didn’t immediately fall into his arms. “Nate?”

Nathan tried to shake the thoughts and doubts from his head but when he saw Magnus like this, open and vulnerable, his mind flashed like warning sirens. Like it was less like a human exchange and more when a cat would lay on its back. A cloying move to bring in a hand to pet its belly, only for it to spring up all claws and teeth. But he still found himself in Magnus' arms. Bark scraped his palms as he set his hands next to Magnus' sides and he smiled. It was more sad than he meant it to be, because when he was around Magnus now he was more sad than he meant to be. But he stayed.

"Nate," it was a breathless little purr. Magnus' hands cupped Nathan's cheeks, bringing their faces close, noses brushing together. "Kiss me."

There was that sense of mourning that seeped from Magnus' being. The same mournful feeling that Nathan got when he awoke from dreams, or nightmares, or whatever they were. A woman's words of warning, lost as he woke up. A sharp pain in his back. A sting in his knuckles and the memory of bones that were not his breaking under them.

"Please," Magnus begged. Nathan could almost see himself in the dark glossy brown of Magnus' eyes, even as his pupils threatened to swallow them up with a deep blackness.

Nathan leaned closer, hands on Magnus' waist, and he obliged the pleading. His kiss was soft as his mouth ghosted over the other's and just as Magnus got what he wanted, he pulled his head away.

"Are you mad at me?" he asked quietly. “Do you hate me?”

"No, no," Nathan whispered against his cheek, bringing him into a tight hug. He felt sharp fingernails dig into his shoulder blades as he held him. Heard a sharp hitching of breath. "Never, dude."

Magnus exhaled against his skin and Nathan kissed his cheek reassuringly. The rough skin of Magnus' face was wet but Nathan kept quiet. He had run out of things to say. So he acted, leaving those same soft, unsure kisses across Magnus' cheek, his ear, his jaw, wherever he could reach. For all his age and wisdom and posturing and personality, Magnus felt frailer in his arms than Nathan ever expected. He felt human. Human hands that felt like claws on Nathan’s back. Human tears that left the taste of salt on Nathan’s lips. Human gasps for air as if he was drowning in the surrounding trees. Human hair that tangled in Nathan’s fingers as he pushed it away from his face, as if Nathan could see him in the dark.

Somehow, it was always easier to see Magnus in the dark. It was easier for Nathan to pretend things were okay. Because even as Magnus hung onto him with as strong a grip as he could muster, it felt as if Magnus was slipping through his fingers like sand. He was losing him. You didn’t need intuition to see that things were very wrong with Magnus suddenly - but Nathan saw it up close and personal as Magnus turned to him with every problem, every burst of anger, every cry in the middle of the night. There was nobody for Nathan to go to with this, for too many reasons. So all he could do was kiss him and tell him things were okay.

For now, they were okay.


	17. a chance to relax

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> skwisgaar/magnus, teen
> 
> a quick break from summertime
> 
> from the prompt "small, fleeting kiss - which is immediately followed by a passionate, hungry kiss"

Skwisgaar felt the warm rock under his back as he basked, taking in the sunlight in the most reptilian way possible. Eyes closed, the distant sound of conversation and music and splashing, wind rustling the trees that hung above him. Until a shadow fell over him, blotting out the light that shone through even his eyelids.

“You’re pink,” Magnus said.

“I ams tanning,” Skwisgaar replied coolly. “And you ams in my lights.”

“You’re burning,” Magnus pointed out. Skwisgaar cracked his eyes open and saw Magnus sitting down next to him. “I’m the only one of us fuckers who tans.”

“It will turns into a tans,” he sucked his teeth in annoyance. But maybe Magnus had a point, Skwisgaar’s body felt overwhelmingly hot and was turning a faint shade that could be best described as lobster. Magnus, however, just sat there, the olive of his skin turning a darker tan around his bare shoulders and across his face.

Magnus snickered.

“But for now it’ll be sensitive,” he teased in turn before taking his fingers and flicking Skwisgaar’s skin, hard enough to draw a yelp from the other guitarist. “Like that. Then you’ll peel and be two shades darker for a day. Repeat forever until melanoma takes you.”

“You fucking assholes! Why the hells-” Skwisgaar was sitting up now, glaring as he brushed the bits of sand and leaves from his skin. “What do you wants, Magnus?”

Magnus just shrugged innocently and started to wring the water out of his hair. Skwisgaar rubbed the spot that was flicked sullenly before a little idea crossed his brain.

“Charles’ horse,” he declared.

“What?” Magnus said dumbly, the start of a new sentence strangling with a squeal as Skwisgaar jabbed his finger into his calf. He rubbed the cramp as it formed, hissing and whimpering and whining as he tried to stretch out his leg. “You fuckin’...Charley horse, dumbass. Not Charles’ horse. Fuck you!”

“In publics?” Skwisgaar replied with a smirk. The jab earned him a handful of sandy dirt (or dirty sand, he wasn’t sure which) tossed his way. But the two of them laughed all the same.

“In public, maybe,” mused Magnus in turn. “Not my first time.”

Of course not. Not that the hypothetical situation would be Skwisgaar’s either. Skwisgaar grunted at the feeling of something itching him. He looked to see a long piece of grass, held by Magnus, skirting across his skin. He made a grab for it only for it to get snatched away. With a roll of his eyes, Skwisgaar lay back down and shut his eyes.

And was tickled again almost immediately. If he played possum, didn’t give him the satisfaction, maybe he would go away. Go and pester the three other people he could pester right now.

Skwisgaar opened his eyes when he felt lips on his.

“Sorry,” Magnus said softly.

Primary school pigtail twisting. Everything clicked into place.

Skwisgaar chuckled and grabbed Magnus’ beard before he pulled away totally, drawing him back down to stay as long as he wanted.


End file.
